Easy Potatoes for Two

Abstract

Easy Potatoes for Two William Millar (bio) All he'd wanted was sex. Now he was preparing their supper. Bending over the old sink was making his back ache. But there were only a few potatoes left to peel. The baby stirred in its cot behind the screen at the back of the kitchen, until the gentle susurration of its breathing began once more. Hardly audible. It hadn't been asleep for long. Actually, life's what stomps on your head when you're not paying enough attention. Get it right, John. It's okay to admonish the dead. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. There was still a bruised, puzzled look behind his eyes. Like that of the victim of a mugging. Maybe it would always be there. Pigeons chuckled in their cool, bubbling way on the ledge outside the window at the back of the sink. They shat on the stone all the time. He shooed at them. They clattered off. You win for now but we'll be back. We'll always be back. [End Page 55] Leaves blew across the communal grass down at ground level. Light rain. Light wind. Darkening sky. He liked this time of year. There was something French about it. It suited his mood. He'd parked the pram in the stairwell earlier after returning from father and son's daily outing. He'd once pushed it to the timber store to buy wood to build bookshelves, then all the way home again with the baby peeking out from behind the planks. Mothers had given him strange looks. The skin slid off easily under the knife, curling away with little concretions of soil, browning the water. . . . to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part. . . He'd affirmed it all. Christ. At the rehearsal the minister had taken him aside and suggested he might pray for forgiveness. He'd politely but firmly declined. He'd wanted to tell the fat prick to fuck off, but it wasn't the right time. He'd keep though. On the day, tailcoats had been worn. Champagne drunk. A reception line, for God's sake. Toasts and speeches. All the proprieties. But no shotgun. The decision had been his after all. His alone. The first day she went out to work while he looked after the baby, a blackbird came down the chimney, entering the room via the old kitchen fireplace. The first day. It had a broken wing and flapped around depositing soot everywhere, or so it seemed. He'd killed it eventually before wrapping it in newspaper and putting it in a waste bag. The rest of the day was spent cleaning. Soot can really mess up a room. He'd blocked up the chimney that night. [End Page 56] The tiny child, blue-eyed with its little slick of golden hair, looked at him on occasion, looked at him as if he was the most wonderful creature in the world. Sometimes he wanted to put a pillow over its face until it just stopped its noise. He'd been present at the birth. Held her hand while she pushed. It hadn't been a long labour. And he'd felt no great outflow of emotion at the arrival, just mild curiosity. She'd been nauseous, so he'd eaten her hospital toast and drunk her hospital tea. Out of the sink with them now. Cut them in half and into the pan. In the mornings when it was asleep, he would often run down to the baker's for a scone and then the shop next door for a newspaper. He reckoned four minutes maximum. Nothing could happen in four minutes he told himself. That wasn't true and he felt guilty. Guilt was all he seemed to feel these days. Guilt for quitting a potential career. Guilt for getting her pregnant. Guilt for thinking of shuffling off this mortal fucking coil. Guilt for the dark, complex feelings he had which he didn't understand but which fucked him...